


It's Golden Still

by theoceanpath



Series: Featherless [1]
Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Gen, I Tried, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-03 00:43:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21170597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoceanpath/pseuds/theoceanpath
Summary: Like the sun





	It's Golden Still

**Author's Note:**

> Playlist: "Daylight" by Taylor Swift  
It's like, integral to the piece.

_My love was as cruel as the cities I lived in_

_Everyone looked worse in the light_

* * *

The protocols are white like a funeral shroud after the short program. You trace where federations and flags have left their gangrened fingerprints on the page, hating yourself more than you could ever hate them. Your body is hell, your legs are scorpion tails and barbed wire; you stare at the scorch marks of a salchow with a vendetta so strong you couldn't complete it. Your punishment is darkness glaring at you all night as you fend off ghosts of dead jumps and phantom numbers slithering under your sweat-drenched blanket.

_You have to skate so well that they won't dare underscore you— _you know this, you _knew_ this, and yet— you _couldn't._ You love the ice with all your scars and crippled pieces, with foggy breaths on unphotographed nights, but _"Do you hate me? Do you hate me?"_ you ask, and her words run away from you.

You need to turn your brain off.

You need to sleep.

You need to win.

You need to.

The next day is a lifetime. The rink lies before you like a virgin battlefield and you clutch at your chest as a four-pronged whirlwind rips through your head. You need to prove yourself, to rise from the devastation of Rostelecom, to get that medal for Japan. It's a hard climb, but you've got years of fighting to back you up and memories of scraping bloodied knees through the bottom with your guts held together by a roll of tape. You've been a warrior all your life and you can't lose now.

The scores fall. The flags rise. You can't lose. You can't.

You _can't._

You—

You do.

You lost, Yuzu._ You lost._

* * *

_Luck of the draw only draws the unlucky. And so I became the butt of the joke_, sings a once favorite artist. You check on her once in a while— when you're not busy overthinking and the laws of physics and physiology aren't busy driving you insane— and oh, she's writing about archers now. There is no room in the song for acoustic strings, not this time, just hope and fear and the simple harmonic motion of love. Her voice is lighter now and you get why.

Once upon a time, you were too young to realize that judge's hearts are steady as mayflies, clear like a new moon, true as the doorway inside a mirror. You didn't know you could lose your temper, and one, two moments— _two years_ and the person's gone. You didn't know the world could hold so much _hate_.

You're not that kid anymore.

Kids don't know how to smile when their heart falls.

* * *

Autumn comes like yellow traffic lights, and the seasons speed up and the world slows down for the people on the streets. For them, not for you— never for you. You feel alive again in the way leaves finally let go and dance when the cold wind sings.

The air fills with the scent of the season of riches. The ice turns green, violet, cliffs and sunsets. Your flames are sapphire blue; what died in Rostelecom is a wildfire now. Brighter than the glow of Pyeongchang's die-cut bamboo or the record born on Finland's famed rainbow nights.

Quint toeloop landed on harness. Still not enough.

Quad axel, quad axel, quad axel, quad axel, you drill it into every thought, every conversation. If jumps were alive it would be deaf now.

You take a breath before you leave for your first competition, surrounded by the little odds and ends of the place you now call home. The juxtaposition of old and new faces, the added gray hairs on your coaches, your name shining in gold letters forever, and the same sand-bottomed rink beneath you all.

Quad salchow. You nail it.

Time to go.

But first, a final kiss to your true love. Her lips are cold and she is cruel silence but you know she loves you. She does.

You only hurt the one you love, right?

Right.

_Take care_, you tell her.

_You too_, she whispers.

You feel her breath on your face that night. And in your dreams she lies on your bed in all her colors and when you touch her she hugs you back.

* * *

You're all smiles and promises when you reach the venue. Cameras flock around to scavenge bits and flashes of you, greedy in their quest to grab every moment, every word, every sigh and sniffle, and claim it as their own. This is your stage, your circus, and you go through the motions, greeting familiar faces here and there, until another friend shows up on the wings of the harvest moon.

"Hey, Yuzu!" he greets from afar, and together you just might be breaking the record for smiles today.

You kick off the season with an embrace, the prelude and summit of a podium, your end and your beginning. It's different now with imagined faces beside you when the anthem plays and arms that don't hold you tight enough. The last time you met at ACI you were staring at his medal; your fingers were numb and your free skate was a mess. You still keep the mismatched pair of gloves to remind you of that.

"Javi."

Your voice is squeakier than you remember, but the hug is the same. It's Pyeongchang, it's 2011, it's the first time you entered the Cricket Club, it's takeout at McDonalds before the social media storm and fingers tickling your back to chase away the words _this is my last Olympics _from the fuzz of fireworks in your head. Just let it stay like this, please, please, always.

You pull away.

He has his journey too. You both have new goals and new dreams and new heights to sear your names on. _Take the sport higher_— 'twas your pact back then, fresh ice and fresh sights and the Gordian knot of English hammering at your eardrums. Now it's time for him to enjoy the life he laid down at the rink's door, and you dream that someday it will be your turn too.

_Vamos! _your eyes whisper to his retreating back. _Fly on._

* * *

You push off the boards, ready. It's your second chance program, courtesy of your childhood hero and Raul Di Blasio, and it's golden still. Despite the fall. Despite how infinitely worse your performance today was compared to what you know you can do, you know you can, you can, you really can, you just have to— you're battling flashbacks till the music ends; these aren't the memories autumn should bring.

It's over. _It's okay_, your coaches tell you. They know you'll redeem yourself in the free.

And so you sleep well that night and the next day you're grimacing at the score board because that didn't look like redemption at all.

_Not enough. Still not enough._

Your head hurts. Overscored, underscored. Overscored, underscored. The night goes up in flames.

Sometimes everything is wrong.

* * *

"Do you hate me?" you ask her when you get back to Toronto. _"Why?"_

You probably sound like a scorned lover at this point. It's a blessing no one sees you.

You want to blame her. You have so many things to blame her for. You have so many things to _hate_ her for. She could have killed you— no— _you_ could have killed you. It's not her fault. It was your choice. Everything.

You loved her.

Your choice.

You love her.

_You love her._

Love always trusts. Love always hopes. Love never gives up.

The season lies ahead, long and cruel, and your body is failing, and you're tired. But you love her, so you go on.

* * *

It's your second competition of the season, your first Grand Prix, and you're _still_ in Canada. May there be no silver medals this time. May there be no injuries. No regrets.

The ice calls to you, beautiful and treacherous, daring you once again.

_Do you trust me? _she asks._ Do you?_

Here come the cameras. Here come the fans. You ready yourself for a non-stop performance again. The Pooh bears cheer and you smile at them. You take of your skate guards and touch the ice.

_Do you love me?_

You bring your fingers to your lips, tasting memories of a spring in Sendai where your feet almost slipped but the water somehow lifted you, saving you.

_Do you love me?_

She stubbornly refuses to answer. You smirk and jump a quad axel—

in your head. You glide around laughing. It's your private joke now, but someday, _someday_, you're gonna land it, and she's going to be so, so proud.

_I love you_, you promise her, _despite everything. I'll never give you up._

You shoot through the rink in that step sequence. The path clears before your feet and the audience turns into a blur of colors like the skies soaking in the light of dawn.

_Sunrise._

You take a piece of her, press it to your heart, and skate on.

* * *

_I once believed love would be burning red_

_But it's golden._

* * *

"There is no such thing as a night with no dawn." ~ Yuzuru Hanyu


End file.
